by Vina Jackson
Soon, we were all dressed, or rather the Ball’s version of what performance attire should be. And ready for make-up.
I had been told to trust their judgment and Aurelia had warned me she wanted to see me play in something very special. It was.
I’d never been shy or retiring, to say the least, but what awaited me still came as a shock.
My outfit, or uniform, or whatever you wished to call it, was just a complex combination of belts and metal loops.
‘How the hell do I wear this?’ I questioned the silent helper who handed me the contraption. ‘Isn’t there something that goes on underneath? A body stocking at least?’
My helper looked at me blankly and checked the numbered ticket that confirmed that this was indeed my outfit, and nothing went with it besides matching footwear. Majestically high-heeled, totally transparent shoes, that seemed made of glass. Was I to be a modern Cinderella at this ball? In typical Aurelia style, they managed, somehow, to avoid the dire tackiness of Perspex stripper heels, and on my feet looked both tasteful and astonishing by virtue of their architectural properties which combined sleek lines and an odd, geometric shape that was more modern art than bawdy.
Madame Denoux appeared at my side.
‘You’ll look absolutely stunning,’ she said. ‘And with those shoes, anyone watching from a distance will have the impression you’re floating on air …’ she added with a smile.
Lauralynn joined us. She was already dressed for our performance. Half-dressed that is. An exquisite pale silk blouse that shimmered with every movement she made, its thin white collar circling her neck like a necklace of milk, highlighting the sunflower yellow of her flowing, shiny hair. I looked down. Below the blouse, she wore nothing. She was totally nude, bottomless. Although of course she also wore high heels, not that her amazonian gait called for them. She towered a full head and a half above me as I stood there still in bare feet.
She had again affixed a neatly trimmed triangle of faux pubic hair to her mons, this time in a deep purple colour that stood in sharp contrast to her pale skin. Her long legs stretched like swans’ wings, sculpted, sturdy, in perfect communion with the rest of her body.
‘What the …?’ I glanced around: all the other musicians were clothed or unclothed in similar manner. Pale silk tops and strictly bottomless. Men as well as women.
Besides Lauralynn, who always had something of a carnal aura around her, no matter what she wore, the effect was surprisingly asexual. All of those bare genitals left nothing to the imagination and therefore left my imagination disinterested. They ought to have seemed pornographic, and yet after a moment’s glance, automatically registering and filing away whether they were hairy, trimmed, smooth and large or small of cock or pudenda, I focused straight back to their facial expressions and the instruments they carried.
‘Interesting, no?’ Lauralynn remarked, her mischievous streak triumphant.
‘The Ball’s idea?’ I asked her.
‘Actually mine,’ she answered and winked at me.
Well, she was the cello player and the one who would have by necessity to play with her legs splayed open to accommodate the girth of her instrument. None of the other musicians would have to display any such as revealing posture. I noticed Lauralynn and Madame Denoux both had pure black onyx rings on their middle fingers. As I did.
‘Come,’ Madame Denoux said, nearing me. ‘Undress.’ I obeyed her instructions.
Once I was fully nude, she pointed at my arms. ‘Up,’ she ordered. I raised them and she began the meticulous process of assembling the labyrinth of belts, loops and buckles around my limbs and then my body, with Lauralynn and my junior helper in watchful attendance. Lauralynn offered me her hand whenever I had to raise one leg or the other and lacked balance. As she did so, she jokingly nibbled on my ear and blew me a kiss of connivance.
It was like playing a game of twister, contorting my arms, legs and other parts of my body to make the contraption fit, threading myself like a contortionist between the leather webbing.
‘There we are,’ all three of my attendants watched me admiringly. I dared not look down. They led me to a mirror.
The straps circled my throat, breasts and midriff, tight, emphasising my parts in pornographic detail, squeezing my breasts within their grasp, holding them high, immobilising them albeit without interfering with the circulation of my blood. My nipples had already hardened and jutted wantonly ahead. The assembly of straps around my middle held my cunt in a vice, caging it, exaggerating its plumpness under the conjugated pressure of four belts which fitted me as if I was born to them. The whole outfit just called attention to my tits and genitals, framing them ostentatiously, highlighting them.
I looked like a slave from harem days.
A sacrificial lamb being led to some faraway desert altar.
A buzz of excitement raced through me at the thought of being seen like this by the audience.
The criss-cross pattern of the belts and loops around my body made me look more than naked. Totally on display, on offer. For the entertainment of others.
‘Beautiful,’ Madame Denoux whispered.
‘Stunning,’ Lauralynn added.
‘Maybe just a little bit tighter,’ one of them suggested as I stood there in a daze gazing at the way I had been transformed and fingers flew across me, pulling loops and buckles and squeezing my delicate parts into even more prominence. The young helper retreated into the shadows.
I took a step and realised that the belts were two-sided. On the outside, they were shiny and smooth, polished leather. Internally, rubbing against my naked skin, they were significantly rougher, textured like rope. Already I imagined the marks they would leave imprinted deep into my skin once I was undressed. My throat tightened.
‘Antony approved,’ Lauralynn said. She led me to a make-up table and I sat down facing the mirror and its circle of bright lights. I notched that bit of information away, once I’d gotten past the slight irritation that anyone had felt he should approve of my outfit. He’d never seen me in anything like this before. I wondered if the contraption would turn him on, or if he would be merely phlegmatic about the whole thing – another wardrobe change to play a part, nothing more.
‘I think just a trace of make-up,’ Madame Denoux suggested. ‘Just the lips. Redder. To match your hair.’
‘Yes. Very low-key,’ Lauralynn approved.
Another maid-like young helper approached and began vigorously combing my hair. It was mutually agreed I would wear it pulled away from my forehead, bunched at the back. Simple. Vulnerable.
A boiling cauldron of emotions was churning inside of me. I had not felt this way or worn anything like this for a long time. Not since Dominik.
A clasp was put into position to hold my hair in place. I looked away from the make-up mirror. The dancers were already filing out. They looked like thin, nimble gold statues being swallowed by an explosion of light as the setting sun shone warmly upon them as soon as they left the haven of the tent that separated us from the once blazing desert.
Madame Denoux led us out. Lauralynn took my hand, in a gesture of reassurance.
The coach awaited us and we took to our seats, many of us too embarrassed to look at each other now that we were adorned and all strategically unclad to various degrees for what was to come. As I quickly noticed, the golden sheen of the dancers was just body paint, not a costume or a trick of the light and they were as equally exposed as us musicians. A second, smaller coach was parked outside, into which our small band of helpers climbed, each carrying voluminous canvas bags.
Madame Denoux whispered an instruction into the pullman driver’s ears and we slowly made our way further into the depths of the desert, away from the encampment of tents and improvised constructions.
We drove in silence, past rock formations and dried-up creeks, in the shadow of squat mountains and plateaus. How
much further, I wondered, did the realm of the Ball extend? Most of us were muching on chocolate and energy bars, wraps and sandwiches which had been provided. Trying not to ruin our make-up as we did so. Giselle urged us on as this would be our only food until the Ball’s conclusion, she said.
Then, emerging from a narrow pass we reached the plain, an endless bowl of earth that extended as far as the eye could reach to a blurry, heat-hazed horizon. A gigantic eco-dome occupied its geographical centre, like a futuristic circus tent dropped from a mighty height onto the surface of the planet below. Scores of vehicles were parked close to it. The coach slowed to a halt and, once again, Madame Denoux acted as our leader and we filed towards the edifice in a regimental manner.
Total darkness.
Utter silence, bar a scattered cough or someone hastily clearing their throat in the invisible audience.
A raised platform had been erected on which we stood and sat, instruments at the ready.
As she’d led us to our positions, Madame Denoux had intimated that I would know when to begin playing, that the signal would be unmistakable.
We waited.
The other musicians all watching me to launch the first note.
A sense of trepidation rushed through me, as much as I wanted to keep my calm.
A curious, if arousing scent: spices, flowers, greenery, warm skin all in one floated around the immensity of the dome, caressing my bare skin, soothing and provoking me.
The pitter patter of feet below in the arena. Bodies shuffling, moving, a faint metallic echo and then a deep well of silence again.
The dancers finding their marks and getting into position.
The sound of a thousand breaths being held back in the audience looming at the opposing end of the dome.
A microscopic pin prick of light appeared, seemingly originating miles away in the depths of the dome’s roof. This must be it. I tensed. Raised my violin to my chin and my other hand gripped the bow.
The point of light began to grow in intensity and size and I could not help but notice with an involuntary shudder that its beam was aimed straight at my body, at the precise intersection of the tight combination of belts surrounding my genitals, brightly highlighting the unnatural protuberance of my mons.
At that very moment of realisation, the circle of light began to grow in size until my whole body was caught in its web of blinding brilliance.
‘Oh, Antony,’ I thought. Only he could have conceived of such a dramatic opening to the concert. In day to day, real life, we made a flawed romantic partnership at best. But at the point where our work collided, my music and his theatrical direction, yet another man who understood instinctively what lay at the very heart of my soul – my sexuality. ‘Damn you …’
All that the several hundreds or so spectators could now see in the immensity of the eco-dome was my body in full wanton display, captured by the naked light, outlined like fire against a wall of darkness. I had no doubt either that the more distant layers of the audience could also enjoy the sight of my nudity magnified out of all proportion on some screen hanging above me, as happened so often in arena rock concerts.
Bow to string.
Raising the first note. Then another. And yet another.
The sinuous melody that had been haunting my nights for weeks now, expressing my deepest fears, emotions and desires. Sadness, memories, hunger, pain, melancholy, desire, pleasure, hope and despair squeezed into a sound that was now forever part of my inner fabric.
I played alone. Extending the notes until neither my heart nor my instrument could bear it any longer and switched to a minor chord and heard Lauralynn’s cello beginning the counterpoint, grounding me, expanding the theme, and then the string section took over and we all soared in unison, like separate streams merging into one as we reached a form of chorus.
The web of light highlighting me had now expanded, no longer focused on my cunt but bathing all of my body, then enlarging until all my fellow musicians were captured in its embrace.
Further streams of light came to life in the dome’s roof, streaming down like avalanches across the centre of the arena where the dancers were now waltzing with grace, their steps forming geometric shapes full of rigour and elegance translating in precise patterns the music we were playing.
They formed slim pillars of gold as they glided along, their movements smooth and effortless. A taller pair of dancers, a man and a woman, detached themselves from the main corps de ballet and pirouetted daintily around the massed group. I adjusted my rhythm to theirs and Lauralynn followed suit, reading my intentions perfectly.
The beam of light cleverly following the pair across the dome’s floor suddenly changed colour, moving from sharp white to warm gold and their perfect bodies shimmered in its embrace.
They swirled and floated along with consummate ease, with the fluidity of ice skaters, hand in hand and other hand on shoulder. A concentric circle of movement brought them momentarily closer to the orchestra’s platform. The female dancer’s dark hair flowed freely all the way down her back, her partner’s calf muscles taut as he guided her along. As they whizzed past me, they separated briefly and I held my breath; a thin gold chain joined them as they danced, seemingly clipped on in two places to her labia connecting with the cock ring her partner was wearing at the base of his dick. Trying not to miss a single beat, my gaze tried to follow them and see things more clearly, but they quickly merged back into the formless mass of the other dancers and moved into the distance.
There had been no hint of this in our rehearsals, although to be fair, we had all been properly, even conservatively dressed on the occasion and more intent on nailing the melodies and how the dance would dovetail into the music at the time.
The dancers were all bunched together, their bodies a-tremble while, as planned, the front line of the string section unleashed a storm of dramatic pizzicati. I dragged my bow against the violin’s neck, ready to launch myself into the middle section of the improvisation which had initially been rooted in a bucolic section of a Mahler symphony, not even a violin piece per se but an orchestral one which resonated strongly for me and allowed me a suitable platform for melodic digressions, like a road opening up to a far horizon with multiple choice exits rushing by, offering themselves in turn and which only instinct could select properly. I was becoming so much more at ease when improvising and even wondered whether I’d ever be capable of faithfully following a set partition again. Or did I even wish to?
In response to my change of musical direction, the pack of dancers burst open, separating, stepping back like a flower opening and I saw they were all connected together by cunt and cock, a daring spider’s web of golden bodies pulling at each other’s parts, meshes straining, their thin metal chains interlocking in magical patterns, faces contorted with pain or pleasure, bodies animated by waves of sensations I could only guess at, and still they danced, every staccato movement in mathematical harmony with the sounds of my violin, Lauralynn’s growling cello and the soothing lullaby of the rest of the orchestra underpinning our irresistible, impassioned flow.
Their timing was impeccable. Like a pulsing heart in motion.
We maintained the beat, spotlights unerringly lingering on our exposed parts as we imperceptibly adjusted our stances to match the gliding, heavenly movements of the yoked dancers.
They expanded and contracted, dripped and ebbed, like a cat’s cradle, ever-connected, and vibrating with life and sex.
As I played, I imagined myself on that dance floor, with a golden ring pierced into the most delicate part of my skin, something I’d once seen in an art movie and had left a strong impression on me, into which a thin chain threaded, keeping me spread, open and pulled here and there by a gallery of erect cocks in perpetual motion, forced to keep up, to maintain the rhythm that could either sustain or harm me.
My heart pumped wildly.
My
violin was turning into the devil, leading the mad dance and I was becoming just an instrument in its service. The crescendo reached its inevitable peak.
The lights exploded and the audience roared.
I was bathing in sweat and had reached the end of the melody. The road led no further. I stopped breathing for a brief moment. Behind me, all the other musicians were no doubt watching me, waiting for some signal which I felt too exhausted to provide. On the floor, the dancers had ceased moving, frozen in place like statues, gold peeling from their bodies as the lights began to dim and we were soon again plunged in total darkness.
I could hear the members of the audience shuffling down the stands where they had been sitting, a constant murmur surrounding them as they commented on the events, appreciative, dismissive or indifferent for all I cared.
I waited until silence had re-established its kingdom.
‘Come,’ Lauralynn said, moving to my side and taking my hand in hers. ‘It’s over. We can go now.’ I hadn’t realised we were the only two now left on the platform. All the other musicians had quietly trooped away.
She led me like a guide dog through the obscurity of the eco-dome towards a side exit.
Madame Denoux waited for us there. She looked flushed, gazed at me quizzically and we stumbled our way back to the coach which drove us to the changing tent.
I submitted mindlessly to the touch of my attendants as I was helped out of the outfit of belts and buckles and loops. Looking at my body in the mirror, I could see how deep the indent of the rope-like underside had bitten into my skin and left it tattooed with a fierce pattern into my flesh.
‘That’s fucking beautiful, that is,’ Lauralynn exclaimed.
‘It’ll fade fast,’ I remarked.
‘Not necessarily,’ Madame Denoux said, and handed me an unlabelled pot of cream. ‘Rub it in,’ she suggested. It was refreshingly cool. I massaged it into the criss-cross indentations deforming my skin, now replacing the belts.